But then hadn’t he lost him already?
Hadn’t he lost him the moment he had denied him in bed and proved himself to be no better than all the other people in Aleksey’s life who had purported to love him only to betray him?
The house was empty—torn up, evidence of great violence everywhere, but Aleksey was not there. Ben hadn’t even known Nik—Aleksey—had a gun safe, but it was open in the office, guns strewn around the floor. Aleksey was a soldier—had been. Elite Special Forces, more secretive even than Vympel. He heard a noise from the bedroom and picked up one of the guns, checking it over as he slid around the doorframe and along the hallway. He eased into the room and heard the sound again—under the bed. He knew what it was and crouched down, lifting the covers. Radulf stared back at him for a moment then came out, utterly silent but speaking with his body, all twisting rubs and anxiety. Ben murmured to him for a while, calming them both down.
Then he heard another noise from downstairs. He’d been expecting it. They were watching the house, which was a good sign—it meant possibly that Aleksey had got away. He told Radulf to wait where he was. Radulf immediately went back under the bed. It seemed like a good plan. Ben went silently back to the hall and cautiously peered over the handrail. He had one possible advantage in this situation—Zaslon may have found Aleksey, may even know he was living with someone else in the house, but it was very doubtful they knew who, or what, Ben was. They were about to find out.
A man was coming up the stairs, covering himself with a raised automatic pistol. Ben shot him in both knees. He wanted this one alive. The shots brought out another man from the kitchen. Ben shot that one in the head. One alive was enough for his purposes.
§§§
When the man came around, Ben had him tied to a chair in the kitchen. Ben sat across from him, straddling another chair, what was left of the man’s knees almost touching Ben’s. Ben was glad now that Aleksey used to smoke, for he’d found his lighter on the counter and was clicking it on and off. The man swallowed deeply. He couldn’t help but be aware of the smell of petrol. He was soaked in it.
“You would not dare, you fucking faggot.” His Russian was guttural and spat out in great pain. Ben spoke only a few words of Russian, but he understood the import of this if not the finer details.
He responded in English. “Where is Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen?”
The man spat and said in broken English, “He dead.”
Ben’s heart did its alarming stop and start thing again, but then he realised the man wasn’t talking about recent events.
“Where is the man who lives here?” He clicked the lighter on, weaving one finger in and out through the small flame.
The man laughed in his face. “You would not. Whole house goes poof. Like you: poof.”
Ben nodded. “Okay, I’ll save this for my big exit. But this may improve your English.” He produced his boning knife. “It’s a simple question. Where is…? No? Okay.” He took the man’s hand, inserted the tip into a knuckle joint and cut the finger off. He went calmly to the sink to wash his hands so they weren’t slippery from the blood and returned to his seat. “Where is Nikolas Mikkelsen?”
“Fuck you!”
The man lost another finger, but incredibly, he still refused to answer. With a sigh of boredom, Ben wiped his hands on a tea towel then crouched next to the man, trying to avoid the blood, and unzipped the helpless man’s pants.
“No!”
Ben smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to cut anything off.” He dug the man’s cock out and let it hang. It was very, very soft—which was predicable and understandable. “You ever done any sounding? Yeah, didn’t think so. Pussy. What do they teach Russian Special Forces anyway? Okay, so, see that little hole there? Well, I could push my finger in, but don’t worry, I’m not going to. I’ve got a much better idea. I was thinking my screwdriver…your English okay with screwdriver? Yeah, I can see you get exactly what I mean; but see, here’s the thing, I’m much better with this.” He held up the bloodstained knife once more, the man’s eyes tracking it like a cat watching a mouse. “So, this is going to go down into that little hole, and I’m going to do some scraping around. Hollow you out a bit. How does that—?”
“He got away. I swear it. He went over wall there.” The man flung his head back to indicate the courtyard wall.
Ben got out of his crouch, wincing at his old knee injury and went into the courtyard. There was a distinct blood trail up and over the wall, just as the man said. Behind the wall was the alley that ran along the back of all the mews houses. That led to garages and then the road. He came back in.
“He was shot?”
The man nodded. “Twice, we think. Maybe. Lot of bullets, but he still run like fucking wind.” He chuckled and shook his head fondly as if they were just friends chatting about another mutual acquaintance. “He always run like wind. Faster than me always.”
This was interesting. Ben sat back down, tapping the knife on his wrist. The man was losing too much blood to stay focused for long, so Ben nicked the tip of his cock, just to perk him up a bit. “You knew him personally?”
“Of course. He my boss many years. He and Gregory. You tell bastard Aleksey that Gregory say hello. He know what that mean. And I no tell you shit more— Ahh! Please! No! I have wife and children.”
“Well, there you go, you don’t need your cock, do you? Tell me about him.”
“Here? Now? I need hospital, not talk you about— Okay! He was a fucking bastard. That what you want know? He cold fish. You have that expression? Never smile. Never laugh. Except maybe when he hurting someone. Then he enjoy much.”
Ben pursed his lips. “Was he married? With someone…?”
The man laughed. “Aleksey? Let someone touch? He never be touched. Not even handshake, slap on back. Killed prisoner when man grabbed leg, begging. Snapped neck. Now that funny. We all laugh. But you know about Sergei, no? Sergei a great man, and everyone overlook what he up to with Aleksey. Although I got boy, too, so I no really think it right, and it make Aleksey like that, no? The cold and not like the touch. But we all heard little Aleksey begged Sergei to fuck him, that he—”
Ben waited, rubbing his knuckles where he’d punched the man, until he could see signs of consciousness returning, then picked up the phone. He ignored the frantic struggling when the man discovered he was gagged and that his dead colleague now lay at his feet.
When the crisp voice asked him which service he required, he replied in heavily accented English, “Fire,” waited, then continued, “yes, I report fire.” He gave the address. “Fire in kitchen; I no want it spread in house.” He stood there, staring at the bleeding, terrified man, until he heard sirens, then he clicked the lighter and tossed it into the petrol-soaked lap. He didn’t stay to watch the oily blue flame engulf the chair or listen to the frantic, doomed struggling, but gathered up the bags of incriminating items he’d packed, mainly Aleksey’s gun collection, grabbed Radulf’s lead, and went to the vehicle. He knew it was probably bugged, but he wouldn’t need it for long.
